


hallowed be thy name

by Marianne_Dashwood



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Catholic Guilt, Catholic Imagery, M/M, POV Second Person, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Roman Catholicism, i am not kidding with this yall there is so much catholic bollocks, slaps jon archivist, the inherant trauma of growing up both catholic and queer, this bad boy can fit so much personal trauma in him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21550057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marianne_Dashwood/pseuds/Marianne_Dashwood
Summary: You try to pray, of course you do. For six months, you strike at your chest and mean it when the congregation choruses my fault, my fault, through my most grievous fault and you go to reconciliation once a month but the words stick in your mouth like spiders silk and the most you can get out is forgive me father for I have sinned and the priest simply gives you three hail Mary's and an our father like it will cure you of your illness.The crush goes away. The shame doesn't.---Jon, growing up in the church, loving Martin, and all that entails.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 37
Kudos: 186





	hallowed be thy name

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. this is uh, nearly 2000 words of Trauma related to religion so, if you are sensitive to that, please take care. 
> 
> A lot of what happens in Jon's early life, apart from the obvs canon bits, is drawn from personal experience, so uh, this is v personal. gotta love that character projection. 
> 
> take care of yourselves, yall.

You are 13 years old when you fall in love for the first time. Of course, you don't know that's what it was; it's not like how your books describe it. 

You sit in the pews of your Grandmother's church, trying to hold your fidgeting fingers still. You’ve already learned that trying to read or distract yourself during the sermon will earn you a pinch on the arm or at the very least, a disapproving glare. 

Halfway through the Eucharistic Prayer, you see him. It's not as if you could avoid him; he's from your school, and you share a maths class. You know he's studious, a serious boy and you’re not surprised to see him as an altar boy.

Your grandmother was always disappointed that you never joined. But something about the boy's clever fingers and his gentle gaze as he carried the host towards the altar makes your breath catch in his throat and your hands still. Your grandmother makes an approving noise. 

For the first time in your life, you feel _something_ when you take a hold of the chalice and drink deep. The boy's eyes are on you as you do so. You hand it back with a quiet _amen,_ and returns to your seat with shame and excitement pooling in your stomach. 

As you leave, there are a couple of the older ladies, handing out leaflets on the sanctity of marriage. They've always pinched your cheeks and told you how much you look like your father. 

Your father left the church as soon as he was able to. You think that maybe you understand why, now. 

You try to pray, of course you do. For six months, you strike at your chest and mean it when the congregation choruses _my fault, my fault, through my most grievous fault_ and you go to reconciliation once a month but the words stick in your mouth like spiders silk and the most you can get out is _forgive me father for I have sinned_ and the priest simply gives you three hail Mary's and an our father like it will cure you of your illness. 

The crush goes away. The shame doesn't. 

* * *

Your grandmother asks about the church at university. She asks about the priest, about whether you are keeping up with your obligations, when was the last time you went to mass.

You tell her you go every week. You tells her the priest is kind and devoted. 

You don't tell her that you slipped into the back of the mass during your first week at Oxford, and had a panic attack so bad it left you sobbing and with bile in your throat as you knelt on the steps outside. 

You don't tell her about Georgie, beautiful, vibrant Georgie whose family is Irish Protestant. 

Your grandmother grew up in Derry. It's strange how these things turn out.

You don't tell her that maybe you found something better to believe in.

* * *

Georgie takes you to your first Pride, and helps you press blue and purple and pink and black and white all over your face as you try not to think about ashes stuck to your forehead. 

Then you're in the parade and this too is a step, maybe down to hell, but to you it feels like salvation. 

The police stand between the happy crowds and those with more distasteful banners and signs. You marches on, and tries not to see your grandmother's face in the protesters. She's not there, not really. But there are enough women that look just like her, giving you the same judgemental stares

A few places onward, because of course they knew who would come, and where, there are a couple of stalls. Men and women with crosses around their necks and rainbows on their cheeks. They smile, and hand you leaflets that tell you that you’re loved and your breath hitches in your chest. Georgie squeezes your hand, and together, you walk over to the group. They don't have much time to talk, what with the parade, but your heart feels lighter from their words. One of the older ladies pulls you into a hug before you leave. She smells like your grandmother, and for a moment, you can pretend.

By the end of the day, the paint is running like baptismal oil and you’ve been confirmed for the second time in your life. At least this time no one slapped you.

* * *

It took seven days to make the world. It took three years for you to realise you love Martin Blackwood. 

There is a tugging in your chest that is caught between shame and adoration. God won’t save you from this guilt, and it’s been years since you believed properly anyway. You want, and want and want, and you wait for divine retribution to strike you down. It doesn’t. 

_Ave Maria, gratia plena_ , don't let him be dragged down too. Please. He deserves so much better than you.

 _Holy Mary Mother of God,_ keep him safe, you love him, you love him, you love him.

Leaving Martin while you go to stop the Unknowing, feels like condemning him. 

_Pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death._

* * *

You don’t die. You dream instead, and when you wake, you cannot help but feel like you have been rejected from both heaven and hell. Neither want you, and the only thing craving your devotion is a terrible and nameless fear. It will not save you. It will only feed. Then again, when hasn’t your life been spent in supplication to an omniscient, merciless power?

You wonder if Tim found his peace, in the end. You wonder if Sasha found hers. 

Considering what happened to them, you really really hope so. They put their faith in you, and you failed them. 

Tim is probably cursing you from the afterlife.

Rest in peace. What a fucking joke. 

* * *

In the Lonely, you pray for the first time in years. The prayer is as easy to remember as breathing. 

**_Our father, who art in heaven_ **

If this is a heaven, you would rather be in hell. Or maybe it's the purgatory your priest spoke of. Stuck here until you have paid your penance. You'll be here a hell of a long time. 

If this is heaven, Jon wants to fall. 

**_Hallowed be thy name,_ **

"Martin!" You shouts, to the cold empty world of the Lonely. "Martin!"

 _Please_ you think _please don't let it be too late_

Martin's name is a benediction in your mouth. You think of every moment of every second of every day where Martin blessed you with his presence, his laughter, his light. 

And Martin would let that die, let himself die, _for you_. 

Your sins are so, so, many. Martin will not die for your sins. 

**_Thy kingdom come,_ **

This is Peter's kingdom, but he doesn't have all the power. You pull him, kicking and screaming into reality in front of you. This is your kingdom now, and the hunger inside you sings hymns of praise and joy. 

How terrible it is to be known. The Archivist is omniscient. You are not benevolent.

**_Thy will be done,_ **

The Beholding is hungry for Peter's statement. You are all too happy to tear it from his throat. There was something about worshiping false idols, you remember. The Beholding isn't a god. But it is hungry. And it demands worship, forced or otherwise. 

The statement of Peter Lukas is a rising chorus in your chest, his voice ragged as his truths are ripped from him. His confession. 

There will be no reconciliation.

**_On earth as it is in heaven,_ **

You don't know if it is the Lonely's influence, but you feel more powerful in this moment that you have ever been. You wonder, idly, if this will last if you make it out of here. If that is exactly what Elias wanted. 

You decide, then, if it is a choice between Martin and the Beholding’s Rapture, you would pick Martin, a hundred thousand times over. 

Whatever happens, you have faith in Martin. It burns bright and hot in your chest and silences the voices of the Beholding screaming out for revelation. 

The Beholding is nothing, _Elias_ is nothing _,_ in the face of your faith.

**_Give us our daily bread,_ **

Peter's head _explodes_ and you are splattered with warm, thick blood. You’re satisfied, for the first time in so long. 

No, not you. The Archivist, the Beholding is satisfied, but Martin is still gone and you _need_ him. 

"Martin." You pray to the air.

Here's one thing; it only works if you believe in it. 

Here's the other thing: the only person you've ever believed in is Martin.

You pray, and a miracle happens. 

**_And forgive us for our tresspasses_ **

You killed a man. Peter Lukas lies dead in the sand, by your hand, by your _voice._ That's got to count toward the sin list. 

It was for Martin, though. When done in the name of your faith, surely that can be forgiven. Larger cruelties have been forgiven by the less faithful.

You hope that Martin can forgive you. For what you have done, and for what you will do, even if you don't know it yet

**_As we forgive those who trespass against us_ **

The fog condenses, and like a vision, Martin appears. All the sorrow, all the hurt of missing Martin that feels like a spear to your heart vanishes in this one moment. 

Martin made his choice, and it wasn't you. But here's the last and final thing about faith: you get second chances.

**_And lead us not into temptation_ **

The compulsion lies on your tongue by choice, for the first time. You push it out, curling this hymnal around Martin and tugging an answer out of his echoes. There is no time for gentleness, but when you press your hand into Martin’s warm and solid cheek, the touch is soft and tender. 

_Ah_. you think, as Martin looks at everything you are and ever will be, and loves you for it anyway. _So this is what religion is supposed to feel like._

**_And deliver us from evil._ **

“Come on.” You say. “Let's go home.”

“How?” Martin asks, and looks at you like you are his saviour. He looks like you’re not a monster, but a prophet. 

You aren’t a prophet. Nor are you a monster, at least not with Martin’s hand in your own and love in your heart. 

You’re just a man, in love with the man beside you. 

Greater love hath no man than this, indeed.

**_For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever, amen._ **

You’ve never been happier than you are when walking hand and hand with Martin through the valleys and mountains of Scotland. This. This is heaven. 

Martin leads you to a small chapel and a graveyard, explaining that he always found them calming. You tremble slightly, looking up at the familiar shape of the steeple, of the cross that has haunted your life since you first saw it at your parents' funeral. 

Martin squeezes your hand, standing from where he had been kneeling to examine an old gravestone. 

An old Psalm comes back to you _; Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me._

You aren’t scared anymore, not with Martin beside you. You know that anything that comes for you, you will stand together against it. 

You are with Martin, and finally, _finally_ , you are at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed... whatever that was. Come talk to me at @MJDashwood on twitter, or @marianne-dash-wood on tumblr!
> 
> Comment/kudos if you liked it!


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